Peaks Island by Ford Paul

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Title: Peak's Island
A Romance of Buccaneer Days

Author: Ford Paul

Release Date: August 23, 2008 [EBook #26410]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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PEAK'S ISLAND

A ROMANCE

OF

BUCCANEER DAYS

BY

FORD PAUL

PORTLAND, MAINE

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR

1892

PRESS OF BROWN THURSTON CO., PORTLAND

DEDICATED TO

Cora Caroline Clifford

AS A SMALL TRIBUTE OF GREAT LOVE

BY THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER I.

Roll on thou deep and dark blue ocean roll;
. . . . . . Upon the watery plain.
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

September 27, 1607.

Dead bodies everywhere. The ocean, lashed to fury by the gale of yesterday, came booming and hissing
upon the beach in great breakers white with foam; each billow as it dashed upon the jagged and broken
rocks bore in its terrible embrace still more human victims, or some portion of the two unlucky ships that
were fast breaking up. One wedged in between two rocks with just sufficient play to allow of its heaving
from side to side, with every wave that struck it. The other and much larger vessel, the Queen Elizabeth,
a fine British ship, which had sailed from England freighted with a cargo of general merchandise for the
colony of Virginia, went crashing up against the cruel stone teeth of the cliff which overhung and
projected into the angry sea; dismasted, her bulwarks and rigging torn away she floated out into deeper
water only to be driven back again upon the rocks, by the violence of the wind and the rapidly incoming
tide.

Another crash and another, the forecastle carried away, the decks opening, bales, chests, cordage,
stores of all sorts tossed high up on the shore, more dead bodies—chiefly of men, for they had some
time before given up to the few women and children the now capsized and shattered boats. All along the
shore, as far as eye could see, the beach was composed of a heterogeneous mass of enormous
fragments of rock thrown together and piled up on each other, leaving here and there in their midst a
separate pool of sea water; in some of these pools was a dead body or two, but by far the greater
number were lying in every imaginable, distorted position among the huge, irregular blocks of stone.
Many, who had been washed in sufficiently far to escape drowning, were killed by the force with which
they were dashed on shore: there, with broken bones and gnashed and blood-stained bodies, they slept
in death, like men who had fallen in some great battle. It was noon, but not a ray of sunlight glinted
across the ghastly scene. Every sound was lost in the terrific roar of the great, heaving hills of water,
which rolled in continuously; huge masses of wet gray cloud hung over all, obscuring or transforming
every visible object. Far up among the shingle lay one human form which still bore signs of life. It was
that of a young lady, attired in deep mourning, a stream of blood trickled down the pale face, and from
time to time one hand moved convulsively toward a deep cut in her head as if to assuage the pain;
presently in half-consciousness she whispered "Do not tell my mother I am hurt, it would grieve her. She
has had too much sorrow already."

The beloved mother, and all others who had made life precious to the speaker, had three years
previously been tenderly laid to rest in their quiet graves thousands of miles away; but at this moment the
mind had only half awakened. A few minutes later her brain was clear and active, and the truth flashed
upon her in all its force. The recollection of her bereavement and the fact of her being utterly alone in life,
were the first thoughts that came and the thoughts which dominated. And so it is that all who are called
upon to endure a great sorrow, acutely realize that sorrow again and again with each return of the mind
to the consciousness of human existence, whether it be after the delerium of fever, the stunning from an
accident, or the awaking each morning to daily life. With the awaking to our senses assuredly comes the
old heartache; nay, before we awake it is there, and before we are conscious of aught else we are
conscious of the grief which weighs heaviest on our soul. Thus it was with Anna Vyvyan: the awaking to
life brought with it the pain in all its intensity, although she lay there on the cold stones, her clothing

FORD PAUL

drenched through and through, bareheaded, her hair matted together with the sea water, bruised and cut
and faint from exhaustion, still the present physical suffering seemed by comparison nothing to her.
Everything was buried in the sorrow of the past, the sorrow that she had lived through, but had not left
behind.

CHAPTER II.

The stately homes of England
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England—
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There women's voice flows forth in song
Or childhood's tale is told
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England,
How softly on their bowers,
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours
Solemn, yet sweet, the church bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn,
All other sounds at that still time
Of breeze and leaf are born.

Miss Vivyan was the daughter of an officer of high rank in the navy of Queen Elizabeth, who lost his life
in the royal service while his little girl Anna was still very young. His valor had gained for him many
medals and yet more substantial honors in the form of valuable grants of land from Her Majesty. This
property, added to the family inheritance of Anna's mother, who was a lady of old and noble race, left
both the widow and her child in very affluent circumstances. The young widow, handsome and
possessed of brilliant talents, attracted many suitors for her hand; but her heart lay far down beneath the
sea with her dead husband, and she resolved to devote her love and her life to the care of her child. She
accordingly retired to an old manor house on the borders of Wales, which had descended to her through
many generations. The great stone halls and corridors, the long, low rooms and the little diamond-shaped
window panes, admitting so small an amount of light, might have given to some minds a feeling of gloom;
but both mother and daughter had their occupations, the one in giving, the other in receiving, an
education, beside the care of all the sick and poor peasants of the neighborhood. Indeed they were so
happy in their affection for each other and found so much to do, that they had neither the time nor the
inclination to cultivate morbid or gloomy thoughts, which would, they felt, make their companionship an
infliction on every one whom they approached, and unfit them for the duties of their position. So life went
on calmly and happily with them.

A faithful steward attended to the estates and a good old housekeeper managed the servants, always
keeping order, discipline and peace in the establishment. Twice a year they were allowed to have a
dance in the servants' hall, one at Christmas and the other on Anna's birthday, on which occasions they
invited the sons and daughters of the neighboring farmers, and the tradespeople who supplied the manor
house. The village shoemaker, the tailor, and the blacksmith were the musicians, and to the strains of two

violins and a clarionet, they merrily danced through the livelong night, such good old figures as Sir Roger
de Coverly, Speed the Plough, and the Cushion dance, till the rising sun streamed in at the windows and
warned them that it was time to blow out the candles, take off their holiday garb, and assume their daily
work. As for the mistress of the mansion, she found her pleasures in the duties of her position and the
rich companionship of a well stocked library. She had no neighbors of her own rank within several miles
distance, no one to visit or to be visited by, with the exception of the old bachelor clergyman of the
parish, whose formal calls took place at stated intervals, unless some sudden case of want among the
poor caused him to ask her aid, for he knew very well that her heart and hand went forth on every
occasion of distress. Hers it was to soothe and cheer and comfort and help, and many a thorny path was
made smooth and many a heavy burden lifted by her brave and generous spirit and the pleasant, cheerful
way she had of doing such things. In the presence of others she made a duty of cultivating cheerfulness of
manner. Not that she ever for a moment forgot the recollection of her love and her loss; but she
considered her sorrows too sacred for a subject of conversation on one hand, and on the other, that her
grief was her own, and that she had no right to intrude it upon others, or to weigh down and sadden their
lives by what was sent for her to bear. Hence her presence was always welcome to the peasants, who
regarded her with reverence and affection, as she passed, accompanied by her little daughter, from
cottage to cottage leaving some dainty for the sick, or an article of clothing for the needy.

Years went by and Anna had left babyhood far behind her and was now a girl of fifteen. Her mother at
this period, decided that it was time to call in the aid of masters to assist in her daughter's education.
Accordingly, such were summoned from a distant town. There was a master for the minuette and the
gavotte, a master for the harpsichord, a master for the French and Italian languages, and so on. The days
and hours were all laid out systematically, giving an abundance of time for physical training and out-door
life, but with the exception of the masters for music and dancing (more especially the former) none of
these instructors made much impression upon the girl's mind. Her heart and soul were given to music.
While she was in the house her time was spent between the old church organ that stood in the hall, and
the harpsichord which adorned the long, oak-panelled drawing-room. When out of doors she was
forever listening to the music of nature, the wind through the trees, the dash of the water-fall, the rippling
of the brook, all had their charm and fascination, for nature never played out of tune. She would try to
make out what key these sounds were in, whether they varied at different seasons, or if change in the
weather made them alter,

Music was her passion, her love, her life.

Just at that time, two new inmates were added to the manor house family. Young Cecil Vyvyan, a cousin
of Anna's, who was of the same age as herself, and his tutor, Dr. Strickland, a grave, middle-aged
Scotch doctor of philosophy. The boy's parents were in India, which caused the widow to suggest to
them that he should, for a few years, make his home with her, in order that she might watch over his
health, which was exceedingly delicate.

It was in the twilight of a day late in the autumn that Anna waited in the large old-fashioned library to
make the first acquaintance of her cousin. In the broad stone fireplace, logs of beech and chestnut were
piled up on the hearth, across brass dogs, where they blazed, and glowed, and lighted up the
comfortable looking room, with its dark, massive, carved oak furniture, its painted glass windows, its
rich but faded velvet draperies, interspersed here and there with a piece of old tapestry, the needlework
of the ladies of former generations. A few family portraits, and well-filled bookcases of vellum-bound
octavos, quartos and folios. As the butler threw open the door of the room and announced Master Cecil
Vyvyan, Anna went forward to greet the latter, and almost gave a start of surprise at seeing the real
cousin differ so much from the ideal one which she had pictured to herself; for she expected to find Cecil
of the same type as the English boys that she had always seen. She thought he would be large of his age,
with a fresh rosy complexion, bright eyes, an open countenance, crowned with masses of rich, curling
locks. Strong and healthy, overflowing with buoyant spirits, agile and ready for active service either of
work or play. Instead of which there stood before her one of small stature and thin, diminutive figure,
with a pale, weary-looking face and tired eyes, which apparently did not observe any of the objects by
which he was surrounded, but concentrated their gaze upon the young girl only, with whom he stood
face to face, carefully regarding her with that scrutiny which we are all wont to use when we first make
the acquaintance of a new relative.

Anna gave him her hand and welcomed him with a few kind words. As the boy and girl stood there, no
two cousins could have appeared more externally unlike, and yet never were two more alike in their
highest tastes and deepest feelings. But an ordinary looker-on would only see the boy so small, and
quiet, and weary, and the girl so tall, and active, and healthy, abounding in lively spirits, in the full
enjoyment of her young life, with the mother she adored, thinking nothing could be more beautiful than
her picturesque old home and its surroundings of hill and valley, and woodland, and broad green
meadows, and turning over in her mind how she would show Cecil all the favorite haunts. The lily pond
in the park, the finest view of the Welsh mountains, and the right place for a good gallop—then the
ponies, and the dogs, and the fish pools.

"You must be tired from so long a journey, Cousin Cecil," said she, "let me bring this armchair; it is the
most restful one in the whole house. It has a pedigree, too, the same as you and I have. It belonged to
our great-grandfather, Sir Vyell Vyvyan, and was made more than a hundred years ago from one of the
oaks which grew in the north grove in the park," so saying she laid one hand on the back of a huge,
cumbersome piece of furniture, and rolled it across the room up in front of the glowing logs.

It was now Cecil's turn to be amazed, how could she move that great, clumsy thing, he pondered to
himself, I could not. With a gentle thank you, and bowing gracefully to her, he sank into their great-
grandfather's chair, and was almost lost sight of among the ample velvet cushions.

Anna who had seated herself on one side of the fireplace, was watching the pale face, and the weary
eyes that were looking dreamily at the fantastic shapes which from time to time the glowing embers
assumed. Presently a slight, convulsive shudder passed through the boy's frame and a quiet little sigh
escaped him.

He is sad, thought Anna, perhaps he is thinking of his home in Calcutta, poor fellow, I must do something
to amuse him. At the same instant, what she considered a very happy thought suggested itself.

"I am so glad you came, Cousin Cecil," said she "they say you will soon get well and strong here. I have
a little terrier that catches rats, you shall take him out in the morning, if you like, and the gardener's boy
will show you where you can kill plenty."

"I don't kill rats," he replied, still keeping his eyes fixed upon the burning logs and striving to follow the
outlines of a fairy island with palms and tropical plants and ferns as tall as forest trees, which, in his
imagination, he saw there.

"Do you go with your terrier to kill rats?" he inquired, with the slightest tone of sarcasm in his voice.

"Oh, no," replied the girl, "but I thought you would like to. Most boys are amused by it, they call it sport,
and you know the rats must be killed or we should have them running behind the wainscot of all the
rooms in the house, and the gamekeeper would not be able to rear the young pheasants, and we should
have no chickens nor pigeons, nor anything of the kind."

"Why, Cousin Anna," said the boy, "have you a Scotch governess, and does she make you give a reason
for every thing, and give you her reason in return? That's what Dr. Strickland does with me. It tires me
dreadfully, and I don't see what use it is, for I always know things without reasoning about them; they
come to me of themselves."

Anna, in her eagerness to show kindness to the guest of the house, and to divert what seemed to her his
sad thoughts, did not stop to make any reply, but rose and hastily crossed over to one of the bookcases,
bringing back in her arms a large folio, full of colored illustrations of field sports.

"Now, Cousin Cecil," said she, drawing up a chair close by the side of his, and laying the folio open
upon her lap, "this will please you I am sure; this is not about rats, but thorough-bred horses and dogs,
stag-hounds and fox-hounds. Did you ever hear that our grandfather kept a pack of fox-hounds here,
that is a hundred dogs you know. I will take you to the kennels and the huntman's lodge some day soon."

Cecil did not know that a hundred dogs made a pack, for he had passed all his life in India, until a few
months previous to his coming to the manor house.

"Look at this picture of coursing, here is another of hawking, and now see these otter hounds."

"The landscape is beautiful," said the boy. "I like the soft gray light on those distant hills in the
background, but I do not care about pictures of horses and dogs; please take them away. I like to see
the animals moving in the fields, but I think all this kind of sport is very cruel."

This was said in an extremely gentle way, and at the same time with an inflection of the voice which made
a deep impression upon his listener. I wonder what I can do to amuse him, thought Anna; I don't
suppose he would care to look at my last piece of embroidery, or hear how many sonatas I can play; I
am afraid he is sorry he came here, perhaps he was thinking of the Himalaya mountains, when he said he
liked those hills in the picture. Most boys like out-door amusements, she again thought to herself, and
acting upon the idea of the moment.

"Cecil," said she, "we have two capital ponies, we will go out in the forenoon to-morrow if you like, for
we are to have a holiday from our studies all day, in honor of your coming here."

Again a gentle "thank you" from Cecil, his tired eyes still seeking air castles among the red and gray
embers of the fire. After some minutes silence, he turned to look at the tall old clock in the corner, which,
in addition to the hours and minutes depicted upon its face, was adorned with supposed likenesses of the
sun and moon and other heavenly bodies, beside the terrestrial globe which represented Jerusalem as
being situated in the very center of the earth's surface.

The same old clock, which had stood in the same corner of the library long enough to mark the hours of
the births and marriages, the meetings and partings, and death, of several generations of the Vyvyans,
now chimed in slow, subdued tones, through which ran the echo of a wail, like the voice of a human
being, who has seen much and suffered much.

"Dr. Strickland will expect me to return to him now, Cousin Anna, so I must say 'good evening.'"

"Before you go, Cecil, tell me at what time you will be ready to ride with me to-morrow?"

"I must ask my tutor," he replied.

"Very well, you can let me know at breakfast time. I suppose you can find your way to your part of the
house, follow straight along the corridor till you come to the south wing at the end. Your study and all the
other rooms for you and Dr. Strickland are there. Good night."

The next day the ponies were brought round to the hall door immediately after luncheon, and the boy
and girl were mounted. Cecil, whose chief mode of locomotion had hitherto been in a palanquin, did not
by any means enjoy his present situation; but as he made no remark, his cousin supposed he was as
pleased and jubilant at having an opportunity of seeing the beautiful surroundings of the place as she was
showing them. They rode through the park, down the long avenue of oaks and beeches, and out by the
keeper's lodge to the lake, and then away over the hill among the scattered cottages of the peasants,
who touched their hats or curtsied as the cousins rode by. Anna always returning their salutations with
some pleasant word or nod, or an inquiry after their welfare. At last they turned their ponies homeward.
The boy all the while silent; the girl chattering and explaining and repeating anecdotes which had been
told to her, and laughing merrily at the ludicrous passages in them. As they were again entering the park,
the boy's riding whip slipped out of his hand and fell to the ground. Looking at his cousin with a grave
expression of face, he said,

"I have dropped my whip, what shall I do?"

"Dismount and pick it up," replied Anna.

"But I cannot," he replied, "I am afraid I could not mount again without the groom to help me."

"Very well, then I will get it," so down she sprang, passed up the whip to Cecil, and bounding into her
saddle again was off at a canter before the boy could say a word.

"Come along, Cecil," she cried, looking back, "come along, this is the finest stretch of ground in the
country for a race."

CHAPTER III.

No—that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste.
'Twas odor fled
As soon as shed:

'Twas morning's wingèd dream;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.

Dr. Strickland and his pupil had been fairly ensconced, and for some time past settled in the pretty,
sunny rooms in the south wing of the manor house. All the windows of the lower suite opened to the
ground, and overlooked and led into a Dutch flower garden, which, in accordance with its name, was
laid out in formal walks with high box borders on each side, and stiffly-shaped flower beds of poppies,
and tulips, and marigolds, and clusters of monkshood, and the tall white lilies of France, edged round
with thyme and sweet basil. In the soft green turf, were planted evergreen trees, which were cut and

clipped into fantastic shapes of peacocks, and pyramids, and cubes, and swans, and other devices. Here
and there were clumps of holly and yew, from the midst of which some fawn or dryad, some Hebe or
Flora, in Italian marble, had long kept watch. Then there were the old cedars of Lebanon, with seats
encircling their great trunks, the ends of their long branches lying on the grass, offering beneath them, rest
and shade at any hour of the day. The western side of the garden terminated in what was known as Lady
Dorothy's walk. A straight, long, gravel walk, bordered on either side by a few feet of soft turf, and an
avenue of yew trees two centuries old. The small closely-growing foliage of these trees was so dense
that it formed a perpetual green wall, effectually shutting out all the world, with the exception of the sun at
noonday, and the stars and moon at night. At the head of the walk was a sundial, and at the further end a
fountain. Not a great, noisy, conspicuous construction, suggestive of the rush and turmoil of life,
drowning in its splash all the sweet sounds of bird and bee, and the marvelous music of nature, but a
pure, gentle, dainty little fountain, the sound of whose crystal drops, so full of soothing and tenderness,
fell upon the ear like the voice of the one we love. Near the fountain was a rustic seat from which one
might look across the park with its forest trees, its green undulations, and its lake, and still further away
westward to the purple Welsh mountains. In every way this was a beautiful garden, a place to dream of,
and live, and love, and die in.

Springtime had come, and Cecil and his tutor were sitting in their study, looking out at the linnets flitting
about the garden, and at the primroses and blue violets which grew in front of the windows. The lessons
of the day were over, and the Doctor was pursuing his favorite amusement, namely, drawing
mathematical deductions, and coming to logical conclusions upon all matters. Although he was a ripe
scholar, he would frequently forget himself, and break out in his strong Scotch accent; but that signified
nothing, as Cecil perfectly understood his speech, and the family all liked him, for they knew he was a
good man and greatly interested in the well-doing of his pupil.

"Ye had a lang walk wi' your cousin this morning," said the Doctor. "I hope ye understand her better than
ye did."

"I am not sure that I do," answered Cecil. "I don't see why she moves so quickly and is always well; I
don't like people who are always well, they cannot feel for others."

"Ye should no say that, Cecil, when ye look at your aunt; she's no invalid, but she gi'es up her life for the
sak' o' others. Did ye ken that these verra rooms are the anes she likes most, the anes she lived in till we
came, and she gave them up that ye might enjoy the best she had to offer?"

"O yes, I know that," said Cecil. "My aunt is very kind, but I was not thinking of her when I spoke, I
was thinking of Cousin Anna; she runs so fast and when she is not singing, she is laughing, and I don't
believe she has any nerves, for the other day my pony got a stone in his shoe, and she was off hers in a
moment, seized my pony's fetlock and snatching up something in the road, knocked out the stone and
mounted in less time than I have taken to tell you. Now none of the young ladies in India would take a
pony's fetlock in their hand, so I think Cousin Anna cannot possess nerves."

"In one respect ye are right," said the Doctor, "Such a young leddie as ony o' those we used to see in
India, would ride on and leave ye, and when she got home, she would tell one of the servants to tell
some one of the other servants to see aboot it, and when they had passed the order through half a
dozen, in the course of a few hours perhaps one of them would be with you, and, in the meantime, she
would be lying on the sofa, with Shastri standing by, fanning her out of her nervous shock."

"But think of the first day I rode with my cousin, she surprised me so when she picked up my whip, I
thought then she had no nerves."

"Admitting such a statement to be true," replied the Doctor, "which we are by nae means sure of, for the
truth has no been logically proved, I say, admitting that it be true, is it no' a gude thing for ye that your
cousin has nae nerrves, if ye are to gang aboot drapping things that ye dar' na pick up again. In the sense
that ye appear to desire your cousin to hae nerrves, I dinna ken mysel' what use they wad be to a young
leddie wi' a speerit such as she has. I wad no' wish to see a lassie o' her years hae nerrves; na, na, she
wad no hae ony use for them; Providence kens what is guide for us a', and will send her the nerrves
when she is fit to manage them."

"Still I don't see," said Cecil, "why she is not frightened sometimes. Perhaps she may be, but if so she will
never say so; I don't think a girl ought to be so fearless."

"Perhaps ye dinna ken that young leddies o' her rank in England are all educated in that way. The English
hae this proverb amang them. 'A well-born woman is ever brave.' Your cousin inherits her courage a
long way back, she is no mongrel born; I wish ye to see for yourself, Cecil, that it is a gude thing to be
brave. There are mony ways o' showing it beside being a soldier or a sailor." And then the Doctor
dropped his Scotch accent and spoke slowly, "We ought to be brave enough to do our duty to others,"
said he. "And now I will give you six reasons for being brave for the sake of those we love. Firstly, brave
that we may inspire them, with courage when their hearts are weary. Secondly, brave that we may be

patient and gentle when their nerves demand rest. Thirdly brave that we may be kind and diligent and
loving when they are sick. Fourthly, brave that we may not be morbid and gloomy and thus depress
them. Fifthly, brave that we may be faithful and true in all things. Sixthly, brave that we may endure
without murmuring to the end."

Long after the Doctor had left the room, Cecil was still there, leaning his head against the side of the
window and thinking over this conversation. He possessed a generous disposition, and could not bear
the idea of having misjudged his cousin. But he was of a sensitive temperament and not having a robust
constitution, the girl's gaiety of spirit and great vital energy fatigued him. The cousins continued their
amusements and their studies steadily together for the next two years, and although Cecil still called Anna
as wild as a hawk, yet he never got into any serious difficulty, but he applied to her to help him out of it,
whether it was in solving a problem or otherwise; carrying out Dr. Strickland's teaching he appeared to
feel that his strength lay with her and she in her turn was rejoiced to help him.

There are natures which seem made to help others, they find their greatest happiness in it; and so it was
with Anna, the more he needed her help the more she delighted in giving it. Cecil's health was greatly
improved by the climate of England, and with stronger health came stronger nerves. He now no longer
thought his cousin without them, but he thought she knew how to control them; in fact, they had grown to
love each other with that certain kind of cousinly affection which one often sees, and which is very true
and lifelong, but has not the rapture, the intensity, nor the anguish, which belong to really falling in love.

It was a day in sweet summer time, all roses and beauty, when the young people met as usual in Lady
Dorothy's walk; it was their favorite place, and here they would ramble up and down, and sit by the
fountain, and talk, and paint, and read for hours together; and the next day it was the same thing, and the
next, and the next, for they never grew tired of the place, or of each other. They were now pacing the
long walk, and although they were past the age of eighteen, they still continued their studies, but were
permitted to select them.

"What a pleasant thing it is, Cecil, to follow out one's own life and study what we wish," said Anna. "I am
so glad to be free, no more construing sentences, no more conjugating verbs, no more solving problems;
I always hated all of that dry stuff."

"What are you going to do, then," inquired Cecil.

"Firstly, I shall spend more time with my mother, more time in the study of my music, and read all the
poetry I wish to, and ride on horseback, and dance, and, of course, help my mother more in taking care
of the peasantry."

"Now, Cecil, what shall you do?"

"Firstly, I think I shall paint, and rove about among this beautiful scenery," he replied. "I shall paint until I
feel sure that I shall take the first prize in the grand exhibition; I will not exhibit one stroke of my brush
until then."

"Well done, Cecil," said Anna, "that is the spirit I like."

For she knew as she looked at him, that he possessed a wealth which no money can buy, a soul full of
poetry, a mind full of genius, the elements of true greatness in any art, and the only wealth that she
valued.

And Cecil went on with his painting, and progressed, and brought more depth of tone and beauty into his
pictures with every fresh attempt, till the canvas seemed to live under his hand, and his poetic soul and
gentle nature spoke through his art. When any difficulty presented itself, he would always seek Anna and
have her near him, not that she was an artist, but from some cause he could paint his best when she was
by; indeed they were together the greater part of the time, for if they began the day in their different parts
of the house, by some chance they either found each other in the library, or Lady Dorothy's walk, long
before noon. They drifted to the same place, they scarcely knew how, but they began to know that the
presence of each one to the other, was equally essential to their happiness. Cecil was a poet, not a writer
of rhymes or jingles, but as we have said a true poet in his soul. Anna felt this in all her intercourse with
him and heard it in the tones of his voice when he spoke, a voice that had a ring in it, a resonance, and
that exquisite power of modulation which says more than the words themselves. And so time went
swiftly and sweetly by with their walks and rides, and occupations, until they were twenty years old.
Anna happy in the possession of Cecil's love, with life as she wished it, pure, joyous life, with music and
beauty everywhere. A song ever on her lips, the happiest, merriest maiden in all "Merrie England."

Cecil in his gentle way, deriving extreme pleasure from the study and exercise of his art, and Anna's
companionship. For the cousinly affection of two years ago, had in both of them merged into deep
intense love, which ended only with their lives.

CHAPTER IV.

And those were sudden partings such as press
The life from out young hearts.

O who wad wear a silken gown
Wi' a poor broken heart,
And what 's to me a siller crown
If from my love I part.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

It was springtime again, and the snowdrops were nodding their dainty, little white heads, and the linnets
were again building their nests in the sweet old garden, when Anna's mother summoned her from Cecil's
side in Lady Dorothy's walk, to the oak-paneled drawing-room.

"My daughter," she began, "I regret that I must interrupt your present happiness, but circumstances
compel me to separate you and Cecil for the present. It is time that you were presented at court, and it is
time that you passed a season in London. We have hitherto lead so secluded a life that your name is not
known beyond the limits of our county, and I feel I am not doing my duty by you."

"But we are all very happy, mother," said Anna. "Why need we be more known?"

"Yes, my daughter, we are happy now but changes must come to all sometime. I may be called away
from you."

"O my dearest mother do not say that, I cannot, I dare not think of what life would be without you; you
know I will do anything you wish, or give up everything else in life, but I cannot give you up; it would
break my heart, I should die," cried Anna.

"Broken hearts don't die, my daughter, would to God that they did; few, very few die of broken hearts,
but many live with them. I have carefully considered what is my duty toward you, and my reason and
affection coincide; now listen, in case I am called away by death, there is Cecil to whose care and
protection I could resign you, for I knew you loved each other long before you knew it yourselves; I am
happy that it is so, but if Cecil were taken away also, there would be no very near relatives to care for
you, for the nearest members of your father's family are in India, and mine in the colony of Virginia, and
as you will inherit the landed estates of your late grandfather as well as mine, it would be better that you
should make trustworthy friends before I leave you, I see this pains you, dear daughter, I shall say no
more on this subject. In three days we shall set out for London as the season has already begun, and we
shall require some time to get our court dresses made."

The last evening at the manor house was passed by Anna and Cecil under the light of the stars, in Lady
Dorothy's walk. The next morning saw the large, old yellow family coach at the door, drawn by four
strong, heavy horses, a coachman and groom on the box, a maid and a butler in the rumble, and the
widow and her daughter inside. Cecil who was standing by one of the coach windows looking very pale
and thoughtful, tried to put on a smile as he said,

"We are to look for you both back again in the early autumn, you said, aunt."

"Yes, Cecil, as soon as the first brown leaves fall."

The young people looked good by to each other, but said not a word, and the heavy old coach moved
away. In three days more the travelers were in London, and in due course Anna was presented at court
by her mother, who had herself been presented on the occasion of her marriage. Then came calls and
cards and invitations to balls and routs and state dinners, and the poor tired mother went through all
these ceremonies as a duty toward her daughter, and the daughter endured it because she loved her
mother, and desired to obey her wish. It was necessary that a young heiress of her rank should be
dressed in accordance with the fashion of the day, but the young heiress longed to be released from the
thraldom of fashion, the fatiguing, heavy brocade dresses, the hoops, the stiff ruff and the stomacher, the
farthingale and high heeled shoes, and a thousand times more than all, did she desire to be released from

the artificial and to her unsatisfactory life, from the flattery, the coquetry, the idle, envious tattle, and to be
back again with Cecil, in her simple, healthy attire, and to live among honest hearts.

The autumn came, and the dry brown leaves began to fall from the trees. Day after day, Cecil opened
the harpsichord, and laid a bouquet of the rich deep-hued flowers of the season upon it, and then he
took his place by the fountain, and watched the winding road through the park, so that he might get the
first sight of the coach when it returned. The autumn leaves continued to fall, and Cecil kept his daily vigil
until they were lying deep on the ground, and the branches overhead were bare. Then came a letter
saying that Cecil's aunt was ordered by her doctor to pass the winter in Italy, in the hope of curing a
cough, which had of late settled upon her, so that it would be spring before the ladies could return to the
manor house, hence they traveled to Italy and spent the winter among its masterpieces of genius, both in
music and art. The soft air seemed all that was wanted to restore Anna's mother to health. Every day,
they found something beautiful that they desired Cecil to see, but it was too late now to send for him, for
spring was near. With the spring, came back the cough, and again the medical order was change of
climate. This time, a sojourn of some months in Norway was prescribed for Mrs. Vyvyan, bracing air,
and much out-door life in the pine woods. After many weeks of slow journeying, the ladies with two of
their servants reached Norway, and took up their abode in an old chateau, in the midst of a pine forest
so-called, but a forest really composed of many varieties of fir and spruce, as well as pine. The
combined aroma of these woods made the air fragrant for many acres around the chateau, and for a
time, it appeared to have the most beneficial effect upon the invalid. But one quiet eve, when the summer
days had waned, and the faded leaves of another autumn fell, a pang of anguish shot through Anna's
heart. The dearly loved mother was called away.

A short time only had elapsed since that event, and the servants were packing, and making preparations
for the return to the manor house, when a mounted courier arrived at the chateau, with a large package
of papers addressed in Dr. Strickland's handwriting. Very long, and full of feeling, and minute in every
detail, was the letter the good man had written, if letter so long a dispatch might be called. He told of
Cecil's conversations, of his watchings from beside the fountain; how every day he picked flowers, and
put them on the harpsichord, saying this is the place she loves best; and how he faded and wasted day
by day, yet struggled so bravely against the hand of death, that he might finish his last and best picture for
Anna; and how on the last day of his life, he had laid his flowers on the harpsichord as usual, and then
desired to be carried to the library and lifted into their great-grandfather's chair to die,—the chair that
Anna had placed for him the first time they met.

When Anna had finished reading the final words of Dr. Strickland's letter, she rose and moved quietly
into the recess of one of the large, heavily mullioned windows, and looked down a long vista into the
forest, to the tall dark pines under which was her mother's grave. Every vestige of color had left both
cheek and lip, and she stood in the great somber room, as cold and white and as still as the statues
which adorned its walls. The extremes of grief and joy have no speech; she had none. No cry of
lamentation went forth; no tears of relief fell from her eyes; she knew her life was ended, but she also
knew that she could not die. Three words only escaped her lips. "O God, alone."

CHAPTER V.

Has hope like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory
Has hope been that bird to thee?

On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

Among the papers of the late mistress of the manor house, were found two letters which from their dates
showed that they had been written during her stay in Italy. One was addressed to Sir Thomas

Richardson, Lord Chief Justice of England, the other to her daughter. She appeared to have had a
foreshadowing of her death, and directed Anna, in case of such an event, to have Sir Thomas' letter
delivered to him immediately, and to abide by whatever decision he might come to. Anna had never seen
Sir Thomas, but she knew that he was in some way related to her on her mother's side of the family, and
that he was an old gentleman, who lived among his books, in an old-fashioned country house in one of
the midland counties of England, with no one but his servants about him. And when the decision came,
which informed Miss Vyvyan that she too was to live there, as his ward, she was thankful, for the tie of
kindred was strong in her nature, and she thought to herself, there is still a link, that connects with the
memory of my loved mother. Besides he is old and alone, perhaps I may be able to do something to
make his life less lonely. But what could she do, she asked herself, for to her all seemed vague and
undefined.

Arriving at the quiet old home of Sir Thomas, with its smooth green lawn and flat meadows around and
in front of the house, she was shown into the presence of a tall, stately, white-haired, old gentleman to
whom nature had indeed been gracious, for he was extremely handsome, and of courtly manners. He
greeted her kindly but with much dignity, and addressed her throughout the conversation as Miss
Vyvyan. A shudder swept through her frame each time she heard herself so called, by the only one left
who had the right to address her by her own familiar name of Anna, which she had hoped he would do.
But although desiring to be in every way kind to his ward, his ideas of dignity and courtesy were fixed,
and to him she was always Miss Vyvyan. Thus without a thought of causing her pain, he ever brought
before her the deepest sense of her bereavement and her isolation. Life in Sir Thomas' home was very
different from life at the manor house, both in doors and out. The old gentleman passed most of his time
in his library, and Anna rarely saw him until evening, when he would sometimes instruct her in playing
chess. When she went outside of the house, all seemed strange and dull and dreary, plain grass lawns all
around, not a flower bed to be seen, no long garden walk, no fountain, no hills to ramble over, no purple
mountains in the distance, but a flat level country on all sides. And when she came in doors again, no
loved mother, no Cecil to greet her.

Nearly three years had gone by since Anna's arrival as Sir Thomas' ward. It was evening, and they had
just finished their game of chess, when he for the first time addressed her as my dear young lady, and
after a short pause proceeded.

"This is not a fit place for you; I am too old to be the companion of youth; I am doing you injustice in
allowing you to remain with me, and have decided that you shall have a more suitable home."

"I do not wish to leave you, Sir Thomas," replied Anna, "besides I have nowhere to go. I cannot live at
the manor house all alone."

"Certainly you cannot," he answered. "I have arranged everything for you to the best of my power. You
do not really come into property until you are twenty-five years of age. Your landed estates and other
moneys are secured to you in such a way that you need not feel the least apprehension about your
affairs, everything has been attended to. The manor house will be in the charge of a steward for the
present. You will probably wish to live there again some day. As I have just said, I am too old; I may
not, I cannot have long to remain here. There is a cousin of your mother living in the colony of Virginia,
Fairfax by name. He has a wife and family, two nephews, whom he has adopted, twins, I think, also
Fairfaxes. They stand in the degree of a third generation from myself. I mean to say these twins are about
the same age my grandson would be now, had he been spared to my declining years. Therefore, they
must be a few years older than you are, and more adapted for being companionable to you, than I am. I
have been in correspondence with your Cousin Fairfax, during many months, in regard to your making
your home with them in Virginia, until you are older, and have ceased so much to need protection, or
until you have settled in a home of your own. The arrangement appears to be very agreeable to them,
and I trust you will be happy in their society. I cannot part with you without saying that your presence in
my house has given me much pleasure—the only one now left to me, that of recollection. Although you
are very quiet, for one who has only reached your years, yet the sound of your footstep about the house
called sweet though sad memories of my only daughter, and I thank you for them. If I thought only of
myself, I should keep you here till the end, but there are times when it is more noble to resign than to
fulfill the dearest wishes of our heart."

It was in the summer of 1607 that Miss Vyvyan, attended by her waiting woman, sailed from England,
for the colony of Virginia, in the ship Queen Elizabeth, from which she had just been wrecked, when we
took up the narrative of her early life. To that period of time we will now return.

CHAPTER VI.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight.
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic.
Stand like harpers hoar with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean,
Speaks and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

And thou too who so 'ere thou art
That readest this brief psalm
As one by one thy hopes depart
Be resolute and calm.

Oh fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

As the shipwrecked young lady lay on the cold, rough beach, amid the dead bodies, with the hoarse roar
of the ocean sounding in her ears, and the heavy, wet clouds of mist clinging about her, indifferent to life
or death, the recollection of the ship being pursued by buccaneers and driven far out of her course came
back to her mind, and then being caught in a hurricane and seeing another vessel battling with the
tempest, and both ships furiously hurried on toward a wild, rocky coast, the vessels crashing on shore
and rebounding again, and some one lifting her into a boat, and then she remembered no more. While
these recollections were passing through her brain, she raised herself upon her elbow and looked
around. Death everywhere, the ocean with its floating corpses and wreckage lay before her. On either
hand a long broken beach, with its gloomy rocks and its scattered dead. A scene which at any other time
in her life would have struck her with awe, she now gazed at quietly, and questioned "Why am I the only
one left, oh, if I too could die." Turning to look behind her through the mist, she observed that the land
was hilly, and in some places rose to a considerable height. The whole surface as far as she could make
out was covered by a thick growth of lofty pines, mingled with spruce and other sorts of fir, among
which sprung up an entanglement of various kinds of undergrowth, all these trees and shrubs growing
nearly down to the sea and forming so thick a forest, that it was impossible for sight to penetrate it
further than a few yards. There was no building of any kind to be seen, no sign of human habitation of
either savage or civilized life. The great abundance of pine trees, and the general appearance of the
forest, which strongly resembled the forests of Norway, instantly called up the question in Anna
Vyvyan's mind, can it be possible that destiny has sent me back to the land of my mother's grave?

A low wail like the cry of a young child in distress, caused the only hearer to start to her feet, and
looking on the other side of a broken rock close by, she saw stretched out white and still, a young lady
by the side of whom, in a half-standing position, and bending over her was a beautiful golden-haired little
girl of between two and three years. In another instant Anna was also bending over the...